The people from the buildings
Are running to their cars
As the rain it pours hard on the boulevard
There's posters in the gutters
I see workers stacked in streetcars
On the lonesome dark ride
That takes them back where they belong
Is it cold in your bed when I'm not there
I trace highways with my fingers
As cities shrink from airplanes
I stare out the window
And dream of her
As I'm in the arms of strangers
In times of no real danger
On the twisted dark road
That I confuse with home
Is it cold in your bed when I'm not there
Cuz I feel nothing at all
I don't feel I've done something wrong